Staples
by SallySorrell
Summary: A piece that shows the development of each relationship, leading toward K/S/M. In chronological order, from Starfleet Academy to movie-era. Three chapters intended, but I may add more :)
1. Peaches and Cream

"You look like hell."

The door slid shut behind the cadet. He stood in his – their – dormitory, rubbing each of many strained muscles.

"Thanks, Bones," he shrugged, taking a careful seat on the edge of his – their – bed.

It was two single-beds, invariably shoved together by the end of the day. The older cadet sat on his own side, flicking through medical reviews and muttering about the unfair distribution of their homework, until Kirk shuffled up beside him and fell asleep against his shoulder. Always against the arm he chose to write with.

Tonight was different.

Kirk tugged off his uniform and kicked off his boots. The undershirt remained, stiff and stuck to his skin. He curled up and sighed into his pillow; he did not face McCoy, nor did he touch him.

"No, really," McCoy ventured, abandoning the stylus, "You okay?"

Kirk felt a hand tracing the bruise on his shoulder. He tried to turn his head and offer protest, but the other hand caught him. Fingers drifted through his hair, and returned him gently to the pillow.

"Hand-to-hand today," he explained, shutting his strained eyes "Finney kicked my ass."

McCoy lifted the thin fabric of the shirt, and peeled it back. Defensively, Kirk reached to correct it. Again, he was caught and redirected.

"I'm fine, okay? Don't worry about it."

McCoy set down the tablet and moved to face his patient. He knelt beside the bed, constantly keeping a hand on Kirk's battered shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the yellowing edges of the bruise, and Kirk winced.

"Were you bleeding?" he asked, leading the crumpled shirt toward Kirk's neckline.

Kirk knew the situation, at this point, was only worth surrendering to. The wounds would be found, diagnosed, and treated. He knew he should've slept _anywhere _but home.

McCoy helped him set up, and was slow in lifting the shirt over his head. It was discarded, made into a pile on the carpeting. Kirk leaned on the pillow, while McCoy settled on his own side of the bed.

"There's no way all of that's from a class," McCoy began, assessing the injuries.

"He doesn't like hearing 'no,'" Kirk admitted, "And I don't like saying it."

McCoy sighed, and went to collect a kit from his side of their room. It never spent much time in its assigned drawer, between classes and practical applications. On his roommate, mainly.

"It's not that bad," Kirk maintained. McCoy scoffed, and returned to his place.

He sorted through the satchel, and removed what Kirk would dismiss as an 'ancient' serum.

"What are you doing?" Kirk asked, not dependent enough on the answer to exert himself by turning.

He warmed the lotion between his hands, and outlined each bruise before filling any in.

Relaxing, Kirk arched his back and stretched both arms forward.

"He is _never _going to touch you again," McCoy's anger brimmed through his teeth, while kneading the patch of red between Kirk's shoulder-blades, "I don't care what 'class' it's for."

"Mmhmm," was all Kirk could manage, between sleepy breaths and further twitches. He felt McCoy's thumbs, pressing away the tension at the base of his neck. His head rolled forward, and his eyes remained peacefully shut.

"I mean it," McCoy continued, "I'll tell him myself."

"You do that," Kirk conceded, rolling over to lie flat on his chest. He drew in a sharp breath of the fabric, delighted to be met by _his_ – their – scent. Borrowed bourbon, the leather of school bags, and an aftershave he swore he was allergic to.

McCoy fetched a towel, dipping it into a warm, saline solution before he returned. This was spread across Kirk's back, with each corner stiffly spread and stamped into place. McCoy smoothed over it with both hands, smiling at each relieved sigh Kirk gave him.

Kirk did not fall asleep facing McCoy. He did not fill the contour of the doctor's shoulder.

He remained there, face buried against the mattress, quiet and contemplative. McCoy's hands, even when done with their assessment, remained curled over his shoulders.

"Why'd you stop?" Kirk lulled, only awoken by the pause. Suddenly, his aches began crying out again, and McCoy sighed and reached to soothe them.

"You need to get some sleep."

"That can't be your answer for _everything._"

McCoy shrugged and leaned over him, and laced attentive fingers through messy hair.

"I'm a doctor, and you'll do what I tell you."

Kirk swore he gave an emphatic 'yes,' but this was tied into his dreams.

* * *

When McCoy suggested severance with Finnegan, Kirk listened.

"I'll tell him myself, if you won't. You're never going to see him again."

That night, they shared laughter and sips of Romulan ale. McCoy worked at patching himself up, after his – their – encounter with a less-than-thrilled Finnegan. Absently, Kirk toyed with McCoy's fingers.

For the first time, it was the doctor who suggested pushing their beds together. Immediately, Kirk complied.

They slept, tangled up between sheets and one another.

"I'm glad you talked me out of that one," Kirk breathed, against McCoy's chest. He felt the doctor's arms tighten around his waist. One reassigned itself, sifting through his hair, instead. McCoy drew Kirk's face to his shoulder, and spoke softly:

"So am I."

* * *

He listened, shortly after his – their – graduation.

"Don't let me hold you back, Jim," McCoy said, hand always hovering near his shoulder, "That's a hell of an opportunity."

"I thought we agreed; we were gonna look for the same assignment. I'll take anything, if it—"

"Don't worry about me… I think you just found the love of your life, _Captain_."

Kirk let the title seep through him, until it coursed through every vein. It became a splint, which he never wanted to remove.

Love, indeed.

His, and theirs.


	2. Milk and Honey

_The love of my life_.

Kirk stepped slowly through the corridor, on the way to meet McCoy in Sickbay.

Their conversation required no prologue.

"It isn't worth my ship," Kirk said, as soon as McCoy welcomed him to his preferred chair.

"Now who said anything about that?"

"I can't do it," Kirk maintained, nervously drumming the armrests and crossing his legs.

"Jim, if you think I'm gonna tell someone, I promise I—"

"No, I know." He paused, and coughed, "It's not about that."

"Sure seems like it is."

The captain had to shove every breath through his teeth. He studied the floor, and the shadows cast over it by the familiar beds and curtains.

"You're upset," he finally decided, "With me."

McCoy turned away from the cabinet, where he rearranged rows of exotic ales and brandies. He set two glasses on his desk, but left them empty.

"No, Jim, I'm not."

"It sure… seems like you are," he failed at copying the doctor's phrase and intonation.

"The only thing I'm upset about," McCoy said, selecting an ornate, delicate bottle, "Is that you won't tell him."

"He _knows_, Bones."

The liquid was poured, swished, and swallowed. McCoy's hand found its nest on Kirk's shoulder; supported by bone, warmed by flesh, and protected by muscle. The perfect piece of him.

"I don't care; go and tell him."

Of course, he listened.

* * *

"It is not my intent to compromise your authority," the Vulcan established.

Kirk nodded at first, slightly and slowly, then shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"What are you saying?"

Spock pressed his hands together, spreading his fingers and then drawing them together again. Kirk leaned against the wall to watch, transfixed.

"I respect your authority as my commanding officer, and find the overwhelming majority of your judgments to be logically sound. If you find my presence distracting, I would like to request permission for transfer as—"

Kirk reached for Spock's wrist, drawing his thumb over green, Vulcan veins.

"I don't want you to transfer. I won't authorize it."

The scientist glanced up. His breaths were caught in his throat, as he was once again forced to remind himself of human ignorance. The captain's fingertips danced closer to his, but he had learned not to move his hand. He would accept human customs, disregarding them as casual touches.

It was Kirk who chose to retreat. He turned to stare at the door of his cabin, as if that would open it and drag him through. He wanted to be either locked into the situation, or free to leave and forget it. The door allowed neither, sighing and daring him to step forward, enough for it to recognize him and slide open.

"It was not my goal to be transferred, Captain. I merely wish for you to continue operating effectively. I will do whatever you deem necessary to achieve this."

"I want you to accept my feelings." He said to the door, "I don't care if you'll never understand them…"

* * *

He did understand them, after years of observation. The experiment began when Spock finally lost count of their 'casual touches.' He would learn to forgive himself, if he could forget the sensations which accompanied every brush of his superior's skin.

"Captain, the—"

Limply, Kirk tossed up one hand.

"It's _Jim_, Spock. As long as we're here."

The sands of Vulcan glittered around them. They were alone, amongst ruins of Spock's ancestral home.

"_Jim_. The bond is… difficult to alter. I must apologize for—"

Only a few of the words drifted into Kirk's consciousness, between dizzying bursts of information and piles of memories, which he only recalled forgetting. He was wading between their thoughts, now, but nearly drowning in their feelings. He felt several actions at once, and had to focus on executing only one of them, outside of the glowing bond.

With difficulty, he rested his chin on one clumsily crumpled hand.

"So it'll always be like this? The same… intensity?"

It was Spock who initiated the touch, this time. He matched his fingers to Kirk's, before drawing their hands, together, to the captain's cheek.

"Our minds," he said, "are one."

* * *

Spock accepted every order Kirk gave him, even after their missions together had become mere coals in their shared, fiery memory.

"Take care of yourselves," McCoy told them, when their quarantine at the starbase was complete. Jim managed a gentle 'I will', between the lingering pats on his back. Spock was aware of these, too, and assembled a bright portrait of the motivation behind them. Kirk enjoyed this; feelings as colors.

"And keep him out of trouble," McCoy continued, without specification. Spock raised an eyebrow, and glanced back and forth between the others. Kirk smiled.

"Live long and prosper, Doctor."

"You too, Spock."

They exchanged salutes. There were no promises of future meetings. Kirk's thoughts ensnared the word 'engagement', and Spock turned to watch him as he sighed.

"You are not required to separate from myself, nor Doctor McCoy."

"You're right," he nodded. The image of his friend, walking away and glancing over his shoulder too often, was smudged by tears. Spock accepted these as different colors, and filed them away.

McCoy had reached the doors of the lift, and mumbled his intended destination as they opened.

"_Bones!_" Kirk called, "Wait!"

But the words were confined to his head. They sat and rotted, until Kirk thought to exchange them.

_He won't listen to me_, he proposed. The words were melancholy. Turquoise. _Go get him, and bring him back over here._

_As you wish_, Spock replied, in lavender.


End file.
